


Dust

by TheModernOracle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death of child, Depression, Graphic descriptions of violence, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 15:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10902288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheModernOracle/pseuds/TheModernOracle
Summary: Original work. Unrelated to any fandoms.The leather of the couch stuck to her skin as she lay motionless upon it. It stuck to her skin the way leather dose in the humid weather, as if it were glued on. Perhaps she had become part of the furniture, just another object in the room. No one would notice of course if she did in fact fade away into the background. An object, that's all she was.Graphic descriptions of violence and self harm, it's in the tags.





	Dust

The leather of the couch stuck to her skin as she lay motionless upon it. It stuck to her skin the way leather dose in the humid weather, as if it were glued on. Perhaps she had become part of the furniture, just another object in the room. No one would notice of course if she did in fact fade away into the background. An object. No one would care to peal her skin from the leather, separating her from the background, pulling her out of her self depreciating thoughts. 

But that was okay, she didn't mind. She chose this. It was her fault after all. No one to blame for this but herself. She didn't expect anyone to save her, on the contrary. She wanted to be left alone. In the heat of the room where the darkness could consume her. She would let the dust settle upon her skin, she would let nature take it's course. It was her fault after all. 

Her fault she was all alone. Her fault that all that was left was the old leather couch. An empty house. Not empty she thought. There was dust. Everywhere, every crack and crevice. Every surface. Covered. She was covered in dust, dry dust upon her lips. To lick her lips would be to taste it, the bitter flavour of a lonely house. One that had not seen the joy of the living in some time. She was tempted to taste it. To know if she could still feel any thing. That maybe she could consume the memories and emotions that lay dormant in the dust. Maybe she could feel something other than guilt. 

Guilty. So guilty. All her fault. 

She wished the couch would swallow her whole. That the house would collapse upon it's self, reducing her to what she should be. Nothing. She should be with them, not here. Not alive. 

"I love you" she had told him. Her little boy. 

"I love you too mummy!" Her heart had swelled at that moment. The joy that his smile could bring her. 

"Have fun" she had told them.  
"Be safe" she had called as they left through the front door. Her husband and child. 

"We will" they replied. 

Oh how wrong they had been. How wrong she had been. She should have been there. Should have stalled them moments longer. Moments. That's all it took. Moments to realise it's all over, that it's all gone. A moment to ask him "are you alright?" She hadn't asked him. Her fault. She had ignored it. The signs. The swirling in his eyes. Her husbands eyes, the eyes of a man that was troubled. They were like a thunder storm brewing on the horizon. Dark and violent. Dangerous. 

She had watched them as they left. She had seen the storm getting closer. Almost upon them. Had seen the look on his face. Dark, violent, dangerous. Her fault. She had ignored it, dismissed it. And she had payed. Payed in blood. His blood. Her little boy. Their blood. 

She could almost imagine the look upon her sons face, so full of trust, so full of love as his father sped up the car.  
"It will be fun" he would have said to her little boy.  
"Let's go for a ride" he would have cheered to his son, that wrong look on his face. Her little boy wouldn't have known what was to come. Perhaps he would have laughed. Perhaps he would have cried. She didn't know. It was her fault. She had known that this would happen. That they wouldn't come home. Not this time. 

The leather of the couch became wet under her face. She could imagine a puddle forming below her. A puddle of her memories, of her mistakes, of her sorrow. Swallow me whole she would think. The leather of the couch the only thing she could feel. The warm wet worn old leather.


End file.
